Acta Sanctorum
by TheFat1
Summary: When the Saints broke up, it signaled the beginning of decay. A decade later, Brockton Bay is a darker, more violent city, riddled with crime and swept up in a hedonistic live-while-you-can energy. Carlos Mendoza wants to bring sanity back, but will he and his sister be able to live with the consequences? OC!Carlos and OC!Amelia.
1. Prologue: The Fall From Grace

Have you ever thought to yourself, "Hey, I like Worm. It's got superpowers and dark themes and gangs and world-ending apocalypses!" but wished you had more of all those things? I have. Luckily, I know a series of games with all of these things, a devoted fanbase, and somehow little to no representation in Worm fanfiction!

Fair warning: I say it on all my fics, but especially on this one, do not expect pure crack. I balance humor with dark themes, and this one is going to get very dark very early. Trigger warnings are in effect.

* * *

Prologue: The Fall From Grace

In the study of a small mansion east of Captain's Hill, during a beautiful afternoon in late fall, a meeting had been called.

"They're coming for me."

The group's tattooed arms, brightly colored purple clothing, and golden chains clashed horribly with the quiet, refined setting.

"The Brigade… ever since that business with the Nine, they've been focusing on our operations. Taking out our dealers, patrolling our territory."

Two of the three lieutenants present nodded agreement. One muttered a curse and took a swig of his beer.

"I've spoken with a few of those that we've freed from the holding cells of our city's finest, and they all reported the same three questions being asked by the heroes: Where is your headquarters? Who is your supplier? **Where is Châsse?**" he said with venom.

"Boss, why the fuck are we doin' this shit?" a gruff voice interrupted, coming from an Asian man in his early twenties. "Just send a few guys to take 'em out. Hell, I'll do it myself if you want." He sipped his beer again.

The Hispanic youth shot him a look, but stayed silent, while the last lieutenant, a slim African-American man, rubbed his chin in thought.

"No, Johnny. Silencing them will only ruin our reputation, brand us as murderers. We must move carefully to keep the public's ambivalence." He turned his head, eyes scanning Milo and Dex from behind the ornate bone mask. "I believe they are coming for me nevertheless. I've called you all here to discuss what you should do if-"

A crash echoed through the house, cutting Châsse off mid-sentence. Johnny shot to his feet, producing two large pistols from his belt, and Milo followed with one of his own. Dex crouched next to the door and listened. "It's the Brigade, I think," he whispered.

Châsse sighed, kicked back a rug, and sent a spine of bone into the floor from his heel. "All of you, go. The back door will be watched; exit via the cellar." He kicked the rug back over the bone with his other foot as it flattened itself into a gap in the hardwood. "I'll hold them off."

"Aw, come on! We can take 'em!" Johnny whispered, agitated.

Dex stood from the door, opening his mouth in sync with Milo to second Gat's protest, but Châsse silenced them with a gesture. "I have my reasons." He settled deliberately into a chair, trailing a slender spur of bone from his heel. The material warped like putty, thinning and sinking between the floorboards until it was hard to notice even for those who had seen it form. With a calm, pleasant demeanor as he leaned into the chair, he simply commanded, "Get out."

They had all seen him in this kind of mood before; last time, it had been when their fellow lieutenant, Troy, had been exposed as an undercover cop. Troy hadn't been heard from again.

Even Johnny obeyed.

Dex left the room first, stepping quickly and carefully towards the back stairwell. Gat followed a moment later, pistols at the ready. As Milo filed towards the back of the study, however, Châsse tapped him on the arm. "A moment, Milo."

"Yes, sir?" the young adult said, pausing warily as the sound of a door being kicked in came from downstairs.

"You have a younger brother, correct? Six or so?"

Milo nodded, confused. "He's seven, why?"

"I have a mission for you, then." He grew a shaft of bone out of his neck while smoothing his suit. It gestured at a door on one wall, then retracted beneath the cape's skin once more. "In that closet, my daughter is hiding. I need you to take care of her until I finish up here."

Milo reeled. "But… you… daughter?"

"Quickly now. Take her home and keep her safe. Tell no one about her, not even Gat or Dex. I'll be back for her." He swept his arm out when Milo failed to move, gesturing at the door again. "Now."

Milo moved. Opening the closet, he swept up the girl within, carrying her out of the closet and rousing her from sleep.

"Amelia, dear, I need you to go with Milo here. Be a good girl, do what he says, and daddy will get you a treat." The girl offered a sleepy nod, snuggling into the blanket she held. "Now, go," he said to Milo, "and be safe."

Milo exited the room just in time to hear the other door get kicked in.

…

"Where are we going?" the girl said, "I wanna go home."

"Amelia, your papa said to be good, okay? I'm taking you to mi casa," Milo assured her as he drove. Why he'd been trusted with her instead of Dex, he didn't know, but he hadn't risen through the ranks of the Saints by questioning Châsse's judgment. "Your papa will be fine," he added, more to himself than her. The Saints were a family, just as much as his own blood family. Milo had joined a few years back, seeking protection from the Empire, and found them welcoming. A few ritual beatings and some tattoos, and he was a part of something. Châsse was terrifying, but Milo soon found out that he let his men do whatever they wanted, save two rules: don't hurt or threaten innocents, and don't betray your friends. It wasn't all roses and sunshine; he'd killed more than a few people in the past few years, but compared to what the Teeth had been or the bloodbath the Nine had caused? Family mattered.

Milo pulled into the driveway and led the little girl inside. His mother called out from the living room in her usual Spanish. _"Milo, is that you?"_ She sounded worried.

_"_Si_, Mama, it's me,"_ he replied, leading the girl by the hand._ "We have a guest."_

Little Carlos came around the corner, rubbing his eyes. "Hola," he mumbled sleepily, _"who are you?"_

"En ingles, Carlos," Milo corrected him. The girl shrunk back behind him. When Carlos only yawned, he switched to English, saying, "This is my brother Carlos. Carlos, this is Amelia. Mama!"

"Milo!" the woman said, stomping round the corner, _"What did I say about bringing women-"_ she stopped, seeing the shy, frightened girl hiding behind Milo's leg, and switched into 'mother mode'. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Can I get you something? Juice?"

"Mama, we need to talk," Milo said.

_"I can see that,"_ she snapped, turning to fetch a glass of juice from the kitchen. _"We'll **discuss** it in a moment."_

Milo shuddered a bit. He was pushing twenty, and was a 'bad motherfucker' by any gang member's standard, but Cecilia Mendoza could still inspire fear in him when she wanted to.

"Carlos, can you take Amelia and go play? Mama and I need to talk."

Carlos rubbed one eye, but nodded. "Come, I can show you my room," he mumbled in English, and after a bit of hesitation, Amelia followed him. On the way, Cecilia stopped her, handing her the glass and patting her on the head.

Milo entered the living room and grabbed the remote, turning on the news on the old CRT TV. Cecilia joined him a moment later.

_"So, what is it, then? Some gang member died?"_

_"No, Mama."_

_"Maybe she's a homeless girl? Don't tell me you kidnapped her."_

_"Mama! No! Why would you say that?"_

_"Milo, you know my rules. I won't fuss about gang business as long as you leave it out of this house."_

_"She's not… I mean, she is, but not like you think… hold on-"_ he turned up the volume as the news came back from the break.

"…the local hero team struck a devastating blow against the street gang known as the Third Street Saints today, after confronting their leader, Châsse, in an undisclosed location. Châsse, a suspected murderer and crime lord, was captured by the brave members of the Brigade after a fierce struggle, resulting in severe injuries for everyone present. Team spokeswoman Lady Photon had this to say…"

_"…Ah,"_ Cecilia said after he muted the television. _"So the girl…"_

_"Is his daughter, apparently. He trusted me to care for her, however long I needed to."_

_"You think he can break out? They say he might be sentenced to that Birdcage prison."_

_"I… hope he can."_ The words sat for a minute.

_"Foolish. You should have let the capes put her up for adoption."_

_"Don't say that!"_

_"Money's going to be tight if we have to feed another mouth. She's a cute girl, but she could do better than a poor old woman with a gangster son and a seven-year-old boy."_

_"Oh, mama,"_ he said, pulling her to him in a hug,_ "It's okay. We'll manage."_

The phone rang. Milo broke the hug, and got up to get it. Pulling the receiver off the wall, he asked, "Yeah?"

"Milo? It's Gat. Empire's making a move on the south side of the territory, and Dex is holding off the police to the east. We need help out here. Can you round up a few guys to come hold off these fuckheads?"

Milo glanced towards his mother, who was watching him carefully. "Yeah, Gat. I'll be there in a bit." He hung up.

His mother gave him a long, sad look as he grabbed his jacket and checked for his gun.

…

Milo was tired.

A week. One week, and they'd lost all they'd ever had. Dex got arrested shortly after Châsse, the Saints had been decimated by attacks from all fronts, and Châsse had received a short, quiet, private trial in an undisclosed location, then got shipped off to the Rockies before anything could be done. All the remaining members of the Saints were gathered in the old church where it had all started, raising one last glass.

"To the Saints," Milo said, leading the group, "And to family."

A chorus of agreements and similar sentiments followed. Milo knocked back his glass, savoring the burn of expensive whiskey. After the toast, Gat stood up and walked off to the side. Milo followed.

"I don't like this, Milo," Gat said. "This is fucked six ways to Sunday, you and I both know it."

Milo regarded Gat for a minute, quiet.

"I mean, we should just go out there, and fuck shit up! Go down fighting, or some shit. Not… this." He gestured at their subordinates.

"Gat, we got no choice. The Empire's too strong, and you ain't exactly leader material," he said. When Gat turned his head and furrowed his brow behind his signature black shades, Milo walked it back a bit, raising his hands defensively. "No offense, amigo, just the truth!"

After a moment, the scowl softened. "You're right, Milo. I don't exactly do the whole operations thing that well, do I? Dex was always the one for that stuff." He laughed a bit. "You remember that time I told Sanchez to tag that one area, the one I forgot was near the police station?"

"Yeah, I do," he said, smiling a bit. "He called you up an hour later while he was running down an alley, begging for a pickup because the cops had shown up." Left unsaid was the fact that Henry Sanchez had been shot dead in the turf war a few days ago, that one of the candles on the altar was for him. The silence stretched on a bit.

"Wait, Milo. Why don't you run the gang?"

Milo was taken by surprise. "What?"

"The guys like you, and you got a good head on your shoulders. You could run this thing."

"Gat…"

"What? I'd vouch for you."

"I… I can't. We just aren't gonna stay afloat without muscle or numbers, and we have neither." He swallowed, the words hard to say. "It's… it's better to let everyone go their separate ways than get our family killed, you know?" He kept going. "I hear a lot of the guys are gonna try getting work at the Port or Docks. Good pay, always something needing to be done. Maybe Mikey will finally settle down with his girlfriend, have a few kids like he always wanted to. I have my brother and-" he stopped a moment, almost mentioning her, and recovered, "mother, to take care of."

Johnny, who had a complicated look on his face, stayed silent. After Milo stopped, Gat knocked back the rest of his glass, passed it to him, and replied, "Yeah, you're right, but I'm not gonna give up on the Saints. You take care of yourself, Milo. I'll keep in touch." With that, he left.

Milo stared at the two glasses, then at the group assembled, and finally at the altar, littered with candles and pictures like a massive Dia de Muertos display.

_"Good luck, friend,"_ he said under his breath.

…

Milo hated his job.

Well, he didn't hate his **job**, so much as he hated the people.

"I need this done by Monday," his boss said, tossing an inch-thick sheaf of paperwork onto Milo's cramped desk. "No excuses this time."

Milo took the stack without comment. Every day was like this. Nevermind that it was Friday, that he'd have to pull all-nighters all weekend to fill out every blank and check every box, or that he would have to call the overseas supplier at three in the morning on Monday to confirm details. He'd complained to HR about it, taken it to his previous boss's superior, and all he'd achieved was unpaid leave while they'd done an 'internal investigation' that ended with said boss getting a promotion.

Despite that, he couldn't afford to lose his job at Medhall. There weren't many job opportunities left since the docks were rendered useless and the economy took a dive. The daycare his mother taught at had closed, and now she worked cleaning people's homes for a pittance. He needed this job to keep his family from losing their house, or worse. So, when he got assigned all the difficult jobs, or was tasked with a less than reasonable deadline, he sucked it up and did whatever he was asked.

That didn't keep him from hating everything about the situation.

Milo finished his previous task, sent it off to be approved, and did his best to put a dent in the new project before his workday ended. When the clock struck 6, he sighed, packed up, and left. They didn't like him pulling overtime.

He stayed to the back of the elevator; kept his head down. Working downtown meant being around E88 gringos, and Medhall seemed to have them in spades. Right now, he could see a tattoo peeking from beneath the short sleeve of a coworker who'd joined him on the way down. Yet another reason to hate the job: Milo had to wear an undershirt beneath his long-sleeved button-up to be sure nobody saw his old Saints tattoos, an offense that would surely get him written up.

He left the building and headed for a nearby bus stop, then boarded a few minutes later. His suitcase clunked to the floor of the bus as he found a seat next to some lady with a scared chihuahua in her purse. He sat through the familiar bumps and shakes of the trip home, wishing he had the spare income for an auto loan, or hell, a fixer-upper he could take to his old garage buddies at Rim Jobs. Maybe they'd reconsidered the name.

Sometimes the bus drivers just stopped as soon as you pulled the call cord, sometimes they drove three blocks before stopping. His bus driver of the day seemed to be the latter, leaving him to walk the extra distance alone. He barely even noticed the other people who got off at his stop- that is, until he heard footsteps behind him.

He spun around just in time to see a familiar-looking black man in a green shirt, flanked by two Hispanics wearing black and purple skull bandannas. Great.

"Oh, hey," he said, trying to play it cool. "I don't have any money, guys, and I really gotta get home. Can we do this later?"

"We just wanna have a little chat, Mendoza. You haven't been keeping up with your bills, you know?" One of the mooks cracked his knuckles 'menacingly'.

Milo recognized the voice, if not the yellowed teeth, bloodshot eyes, and emaciated frame that had once been hefty. "Anton? You run with the Sons now?"

The dark man shrugged, stepping forward. "Yep. At least I run with somebody." The grunts maneuvered around him, and Milo found himself being herded into an alleyway. Shit.

"Look at you," Anton said, advancing while Milo backed up, "Wearing a buttoned-up shirt, lookin' all responsible and shit. You must be doin' pretty well for yourself, huh? Huh?!" He tried to push Milo, failed at doing anything beyond a slight stumble.

"I don't want to fight, Anton," he said, gripping his briefcase and eyeing the goons.

"Then let me make it easy for you, for old time's sake. Join up. No more paying the gang of the week, Baron knows how to throw a party, and the perks are pretty good. Or," he smiled widely, his ruined yellow teeth painted bright against his lips, "you fork over this month's cash. Your choice, pal."

He chose to run.

That evening, he staggered into the house beaten and ragged. His mama was still out, and Amelia or Carlos had cooked dinner in the form of frozen microwave meatloaf. Hopefully, he'd be healed up by Monday. The briefcase was still intact, its contents unmolested, and that was all that mattered.

God, he missed the days when the Saints kept things sane.

…

Everything was wrong. The world didn't make sense anymore.

"… In the Book of John, Our Lord spoke to the Disciples, saying, 'I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me shall live, even though they die.' Truly…"

Rain soaked into the freshly dug earth. Amelia clung to his hand, squeezing it for security. The priest's words washed over him like the rain off the hastily erected awning over their heads.

"… and so, we commend Cecilia Julieta Mendoza to the earth. May her soul, and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace." The priest made a cross sign, and other attendees began to file away shortly thereafter. Many offered small words of condolence, or empty offers of help, and Milo nodded along and offered equally hollow thanks.

His mother was dead; it was really hitting him now, as he watched the vault be sealed and the staff began shoveling the dirt back into the hole. Amelia was… changed. Carlos was trying to be strong, but Milo knew he hurt too.

Milo had almost firebombed a Nazi bar.

The cops had no good suspects. Amelia had described them as white, male, tattooed, and wearing black and red prominently. Any E88 member in the city could be involved, for all the good the police had done. Even if they had arrested anyone, it wouldn't bring his mother back.

The only thing that kept him from hunting down the fuckers and making them pay had been the thought of leaving his siblings alone.

Amelia… had powers. The doctors had referred to it as a 'trigger event'; huge, life changing trauma that made powers manifest. He had no idea how to approach that kind of trauma, but it probably would involve therapy he couldn't afford for long. Worse for her, the power was some kind of healing; it might have saved Cecilia, if not for one of the bastards kicking little Amy in the head when she reached to help her mother. Instead, she'd been recovering from a concussion for the past week.

He didn't know how to keep her from crying at night. He didn't know how to talk to her about it not being her fault. How to be a parent to Carlos, who was reacting much as he had, save being held back by age and lack of experience more than responsibility and rational thinking. Milo didn't know how to discourage him properly, keep Carlos away from gangs, away from the life he himself still wished he had.

He felt lost. Maybe he'd been feeling lost for years, since the Saints fell apart, and only noticed it when he had no one left to guide him.

The vault was fully obscured by dirt, now. A week from now, her headstone would be delivered; within a month, the grass would be creeping over the scarred earth. His mother would be sealed away forever, then, the only reminder of her a fifty-pound stone and the hollow words carved on its face.

He held Amelia close to his side, for his support as much as her own, and peeled open Carlos' fist, giving the hand a reassuring squeeze. Bracing himself, he led them out into the pouring rain.

* * *

Châsse, in this context, is a French word referring to a type of reliquary. You can find it on Wikipedia by searching for 'Chasse (casket)' if you'd like more information. I figured I'd add this note because it's a hard term to look up in English.


	2. The Road to Hell

This chapter depicts an active shooter situation, though not with intent to kill. I realize this is sensitive subject material, more now than ever. You have been warned.

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Chapter 1: The Road to Hell

"This is insane," Carlos said as he sat in the driver's seat of a beat-up minivan, looking at himself in the mirror. "You have no plan, no backup, and you're gonna fucking die." His reflection completely failed to acknowledge the comment.

The teen shook his head. It didn't matter. He knew that no matter what he said, he was still going in there. There was only this one chance to fix everything, and if he let it pass him by…

Carlos turned off the ignition, got out of the van, and pulled on a ski mask as he walked to the courthouse. He checked his bulletproof vest then drew a pistol as he opened the door. Raising the weapon as he strolled through the metal detectors, he shouted, "Everybody on the floor!"

He saw the officer a moment too late.

Pain lanced through him as the buckshot hit, like fiery knives plunging deep into his chest, the bulletproof vest proving itself wholly useless. He collapsed, and the officer turned away, talking into a radio while civilians stayed low.

Then he sat up, torso soaked with blood. Somebody screamed, but the warning came too late. The officer's right shoulder erupted in a spray of red, and he collapsed with a yell, shotgun skidding just out of reach.

Carlos moved in carefully, picking up the gun and relieving the officer of his nightstick, each disappearing into thin air as the next was picked up. It was still weird to see that- no, to feel that, as they slotted into place in his head.

"Put pressure on the wound," he advised, feigning calm as he walked away from the groaning BBPD officer.

"This isn't a game, you son of a bitch," the cop growled.

Carlos ignored the cop, touching the wet holes in his shirt where the buckshot had punched through his ballistic vest, feeling the unbroken skin underneath. Too close. He should have checked if it was legit instead of trusting some banger his schoolmate had mentioned offhand. He should have experimented with his powers more.

He should have stayed home.

Carlos took the stairs two at a time, pistol in hand. A female officer peeked out from top of the flight and sent a bullet whizzing past him, forcing him flat against the wall as he returned fire. She retreated.

"Give yourself up and we'll go easy on you!" she yelled around the corner.

He scoffed. "Yeah, right. How about you give up, and let me walk by?" A small change of pitch betrayed his fear. Just because he could apparently heal bullet wounds didn't mean getting shot at wasn't terrifying. "Please, I have to do this."

She responded by edging out and firing at him. The bullet slammed into his vest at the stomach, and he gripped the railing hard to avoid yelling in pain as he fired back. His shots went wide, and he started running up the stairs as the pain faded. Fuck this. He had to move.

The cop edged away from the corner and fired on him as he rounded it, the pain sharp between his neck and shoulder as he felt a bullet ricochet off his now-shattered collarbone. He let out a scream of pain and shot through her right leg. She collapsed, gasping and cradling her thigh. He took her gun with one hand, holding his shoulder with the other while the wound healed. The second pistol might be useful. Ignoring the woman's scream of anger, he moved down the hallway and rounded a corner… and dived back.

A wall of buckshot peppered the wall behind where he'd just stood. Three officers, two shotguns, one pistol. No cover he could see, and thirty feet of hallway between. Backup incoming soon, presumably, and his target wouldn't stay in place forever.

He could only think of one option.

He reloaded his pistols and ran around the corner, shooting for limbs as he sprinted towards the trio. A bullet caught his thigh, a blast of shot grazed his shoulder, and another slammed into his stomach; but he kept running, kept firing until the guns clicked. One of his bullets hit the center shotgun officer, another hit the one on the right in the shoulder. Then he was among them, nightstick appearing in his hand.

Carlos lashed out. He took all his pent-up frustration, all the adrenaline and pain and emotion he was feeling, and he struck them again and again. He hit them until they stopped trying to reach for their guns, until he couldn't stand it anymore. He dropped the nightstick and took one of their tasers, leveling it at the three broken, bloodied men and women. "Stay down," he said, his blind rage fading into panic, "Please, oh fuck, just stay down. I don't- I didn't…" His hands were trembling. He turned away and started running. They would be fine, if he just left they would get help. His sister could fix them up, fix the arm, fix the ribs, fix the teeth and fingers, and then they'd be okay again.

He was so caught up trying to quell his emotions that he walked right past the courtroom. He cursed, doubled back. He needed to get his shit together. On the other side of this set of double doors was the entire reason for this insane suicide mission; Johnny Gat, the most dangerous unpowered man on the East Coast.

They say that when Lung came to town, he fought the entire Protectorate team and won. A few days later he walked into Gat's neighborhood, declared him a member of his new gang; Gat understandably disagreed, and fought Lung to a draw. Lung got up first, and ever since, Gat had been his lieutenant.

Johnny Gat was currently accused of over three hundred counts of murder, and nearly a thousand lesser crimes; after six months of incarceration on a minor charge, they'd finally gotten enough evidence together to have him stand trial for most of them. Experts speculated he would get death row, or a few dozen life sentences at least. If Gat had any powers (they'd tested him every way possible to be sure) he would have had a kill order on his head, and he'd already be in the Birdcage.

Even so, Carlos didn't expect him to stay in prison very long. Not if Lung wanted him back.

A single shot from his shotgun unlocked the doors, and he kicked them open, both pistols leveled. Inside, a man in cuffs was yelling about his rights while a pair of officers were dragging him towards the witness stand and the door behind it.

"Let him go!" he yelled, running up the aisle. They dragged Johnny behind the witness stand, and yelled from out of sight, "Give yourself up, kid, the building's surrounded!" Carlos swapped to his taser, hopped the dividing wall, and headed for the stand while the man talked. He heard the click of a pistol being pulled from a holster. "You're just going to get people hurt."

"I know," he said, rounding the corner and pulling the trigger. A shot hit his left arm, but the needles found the gunman's body, his muscles jerking as the electricity flowed through his system. That left only the officer restraining the prisoner. Carlos swapped to a pistol, intending to threaten the officer, but it turned out to be unnecessary. The surprise from the officer at the sudden change in weapons gave his hostage a moment to act, and he took it. Gat bit down on the cop's muffling hand hard enough to audibly snap the bone, then scrambled away while the officer yelled out in pain. The teen leveled the gun anyway. "Back off. I'm not going to hurt you if you don't try anything."

The officer nodded, scrambling back. The prisoner searched the downed officer for a key, unlocked himself, and retrieved the officer's handgun.

"You're never going to make it out of here, you know. The PRT are here, and the Protectorate. The building's surrounded."

"That's our problem," the freed man said, aiming the gun at the cop. "Now shut the fuck up before I shut it for you!"

"Gat," the teen said, "I don't want anyone dying today."

"He's gonna tell them I'm free, and it'll be that much harder!" he said incredulously. "We should at least knock him out."

Carlos began to glance toward the downed officer, searching for a taser cartridge or pepper spray. He saw movement from the officer out of the corner of his eye, yelled, "Stop!" a moment too late. Gat fired, shooting out the man's kneecap.

"There. No killing, just good old wholesome maiming," Johnny said over the man's pained scream. "Cura will probably fix him good as new after this." The teen shot him a look, but Johnny had already started heading for the door. "Let's fucking go, kid."

He caught up to the convict, taking the lead. Gat started chatting. "So, I gotta say, I was expecting ABB to come bust me out. Correct me if I'm wrong, but last I checked Lung doesn't recruit Latinos. You with the Sons?"

"No," Carlos said, distracted by a shudder in the floor. "You feel that?"

"So, Coil's men then? Some kinda kid commando? Don't tell me Empire gave up on racism while I was in the slammer."

"No," Carlos said again, frustrated. "Look, can we focus on getting out of here, then talk details? I don't exactly have an escape plan."

Gat laughed a little. "That's the easy part. You know how I said I expected the ABB?"

The distant, muffled cracks of gunfire began echoing up the hall. A moment later there was a loud squealing impact that Carlos recognized as a car crash.

"Yeah, you're just lucky you got here before them. Let's go." He gestured with his gun and led the way down the hall. "They've probably evacuated the building by now, but keep your eyes open."

Carlos walked past the spot where the three cops had gone down, the blood still fresh on the carpet and streaking off towards a nearby door. Trying not to think too hard about it, he said, "So, you don't sound too thrilled about the ABB breaking you out, Gat."

"Yeah, there's no love lost between us, if you know what I'm sayin'. Figure Lung got tired of my," he put on a deep mocking grumble, "'constant disloyalty'. He probably decided to let me sweat things out awhile before saving my ass from the chair, make me owe him or some shit," he said derisively. "Fuck that, I ain't going back. Question is, what do you want little old me for, if the ABB didn't send ya?"

"Later. For now, we need an exit plan. Back door? Less foam, less people, right?"

"Man, you really don't know what you're doing, huh? Look, we're talking cape pursuit here, whether it's ABB or Protectorate. We need transportation first and foremost. You got a car?"

"I, uh, hotwired one out front."

"Good. We'll go out the front then, see if we can make it out." They arrived at the stairs, and Gat took the lead. Halfway down, the front window came into view, revealing a few glimpses of the fight outside. Unfortunately, the back entrance came into view at the same time, revealing a PRT squad that was in the process of entry, kitted out with several foam sprayers and riot gear. Both groups paused for one very pregnant moment, broken only by the sound of clanging steel from the front lot.

They took off at a sprint for the front entrance at the same moment the squad leader barked a muffled order. A stream of foam hit the ground in front and to the left of them, tracing a line from which there would be no escape; they both managed to leap over the area, and before anything else could be done, burst out the doors.

The parking lot was a mess.

A barricade had been deployed, thick steel pillars emerging from the pavement surrounding the parking lot. Emphasis on **had** been; several of the pillars were now in chunks, strewn about by the entrance of a blockade runner in the form of a pickup with a wedge front, which was smoking off to the side. Oni Lee, Lung's faithful right hand, was keeping the assembled troopers in total chaos, appearing, stabbing or slashing or striking, and puffing into ash, always in two or three places at once. The Protectorate had fielded Armsmaster, the imposing armored cape fighting a four-armed, four-sworded samurai who stood a head over him, and Miss Militia, who was currently firing a burst of bullets at a woman who blocked them with a pair of giant paper fans.

"Over there!" the teen said, pointing at the minivan.

"What, behind the van?" Gat said, still sprinting. The doors burst open behind them as the squad pursued.

"I needed something that didn't scream 'stolen vehicle'! Everyone drives vans!" He could feel himself tiring out as they reached the van, and quickly climbed in, pulling out his shotgun and shooting out the window while Gat got in the driver's seat. He fired a second shell into the shield of one of the lead pursuers, making him stumble and slow the group down. The van's engine roared to life, Gat stomped down on the reverse, and the next shot went wide.

"Hang on, kid!" he yelled as he spun the vehicle to face the gap in the barricade and floored it.

Carlos braced himself, the shotgun disappearing as he grabbed for handholds. The van slammed into the gap; they rocked wildly as it drove over the rubble and barely scraped through. Carlos looked back, and for a moment saw Oni Lee watching the van. Then Gat rounded a corner, and they were gone.

"Next stop, my girlfriend," Gat said.

…

Gat's girlfriend lived out in the suburbs, so Gat's declaration was quickly put on hold while they stole a fresh vehicle to throw off pursuit. Their minivan wasn't exactly subtle with long scars down either side.

Of course, the car they stole was almost worse.

"Did we really have to take the guy's muscle car?" Carlos said as they tore down the neighborhood road at highway speeds.

"You're kidding, right? You gonna high horse me?" He patted the leather dashboard. "I just spent six months in prison awaiting a death sentence, then only got out by taking on another death sentence. I've earned this."

"This thing's already reported stolen by now. We're gonna have to switch cars again."

"Relax, enjoy the ride, live a little. Sheesh. Not like the cops are gonna track down a stolen car the same day, even if I did rough the guy up a bit. We'll get it repainted, new plates, maybe do some work under the hood, you know?"

"I'm just saying, we're trying not to draw attention."

"Says the guy who shot more than a few cops today and therefore has bigger things to be worried about." He pulled over. "We're here. If you can stand with that stick up your ass, come inside and wash up while I talk to her. She ain't gonna like this."


	3. Good Intentions

_This chapter is in regression thanks to broughtfromxp and Undead Robot._

* * *

Chapter 2: Good Intentions

Cura was working on her fifth patient when the call came in. She dug for her phone with her free hand. "I'm sorry," she said, tweaking the nerves and blood vessels of the patient into normal locations as the largest tumors dissolved. "I need to take this."

"Take all the time you need," the woman smiled. "I think I can wait a few minutes."

She nodded thanks as the phone went to her ear. "This is Cura, how can I help you?"

"Sergeant Brian, BBPD. We've got several officers down, multiple gunshot wounds. Are you available?"

She frowned. "I'm doing volunteer work at the moment. Are any of the injuries life-threatening in a way paramedics couldn't stabilize, or can it wait another half-hour?"

"I…I hate to leave them hurting, but they're all stable. The injuries are cape-related, so your fee is pre-approved. We can send a squad car to pick you up?"

"In twenty minutes, and I'll just need an escort. Thank you for understanding." She hung up and went back to tracking down metastasized cells. Finding none, she started working on other problems.

"You don't have to keep going, you know," the woman – Charlize – said. "You already told me you made everything benign. The doctors could do the rest."

"They could, but I'd rather take another minute to repair the damage for you. You've been off your feet so long your legs have atrophied. Your follicles needed a kickstart, your GI tract was completely imbalanced, and your neurochemistry is off from stress and chemo both. All of that, I can fix better than new, and save you months of pain and recovery." As quickly as she listed each problem, it ceased to be one. "Just like that, I'm done." She took her hand away and stood. "The doctors will be in shortly to walk you through your recovery regimen, but I'm happy to report that you're cancer-free."

The woman smiled weakly; Cura could tell that she was trying not to break down. "I can't thank you enough," she managed to croak out, clasping her hands at her chest as if to pray. "You've saved my life."

"Glad I could help," she replied absently as she walked out. The praise was undeserved, but it was far too common for her to bother correcting anymore.

She volunteered as much for the charity work tax write-off as it was for the sake of helping people; curing terminal illnesses and impossible cases was as easy for 'The Miracle Cure' as filling out paperwork or making burgers was for a normal person. The healing was often rote and boring, but then again, what work wasn't? There was a kind of zen to it that couldn't be found in the injury repair she offered at a discount to the police and government. Too few clients were willing to pay for more interesting modifications.

She sighed and started walking to the next patient's room. Fifteen minutes left on today's hour of volunteering, then she just had the job after, and hopefully the Protectorate wouldn't get themselves in a serious fight tonight…

Her work phone rang again. Biting back a curse, she answered it the usual way.

"This is Cura, how can I help you?"

* * *

Amelia finished healing the boys in blue in under half an hour, then made record time to the Protectorate base to fix Miss Militia's major concussion and lacerations. A few thousand dollars richer, she changed clothes and scooted her little souped-up Vespa home as fast as she dared. Today had been taxing, and she needed to relax a bit before the next task.

Pulling the moped around the parked car and chaining it to the back fence, she made a shortcut through her carefully grown and tended bushes to get to the door. Swinging it open, she called, "Carlos, I'm home!"

The sound echoed through the empty house. No response as the door closed. It wasn't like him to be out, but she supposed this wasn't a normal week for either of them.

She hung up her purse, went to the fridge, and got out a beer. Amelia wasn't legally allowed to drink yet, but nobody was going to stop her. Popping the top, she grabbed a plant out of the kitchen window and made her way to the living room. She plopped down on the couch with the items, turned on the TV to the channel the news would be on in a few minutes, and wrapped one of the vines around her finger. As she sipped her beer, her power examined the plant. It wasn't getting enough light up in that window, if the glucose levels were any indication; she'd need to move it outside soon. Maybe hang it over the table on the back patio?

On TV, a big man in a plaid vest was reclining in a beat-up chair, holding a beer. "Hey Merlene, didya hear that new fancy-like clothing store Impressions is having a big ol' sale?" he called to the kitchen.

**"**Naw I didn't hear none of that. Why, you want some fancy duds so you can go lookin' like them big movie stars?"A record scratched, and the view switched to the store's interior.

"Do not fret my lovelies," a thick, posh-sounding German accent said. "Even when Impressions' clothing iz on sale, ze unfabulous will still not be able to afford shopping here. But to ze upper-middle-class slaving away in your cubicle farms? Zis is your chance to make something of your life. Impressions: You only get one, so make it count."

Amelia realized she was procrastinating, sighed, and took another deep swig of bitter liquid. This wasn't going to be any easier once the alcohol started giving her a buzz. She leaned forward and picked up a clipboard from the cluttered coffee table. She'd wanted to do this with Carlos, but he probably wouldn't do it with her anyway. He'd taken things a lot harder than her. She plopped back and began to reread the documents.

**Becker Funeral Home**

To the family of Milo Mendoza, we would like to offer our sincere condolences in this time of mourning…

She signed the appropriate lines of the form. Their brother would receive a fine black granite cross, resting right next to Mama like he would have wanted. It would have to be a small, closed casket service. She left the inscription space blank, resolving to use it as a bargaining point to reach her brother past all of his grief and anger. When she reached the eulogy planner, she found it too hard to continue. She had to set it aside a minute to stop herself from tearing up, taking deep breaths and immersing herself in the little houseplant next to her and its photosynthetic dance. By the time she got herself under control again, it was time for the news.

"Good afternoon. We open with an urgent report," the woman onscreen said. "Johnny Gat, a dangerously violent criminal, escaped from police custody mere minutes before his trial. We here at channel 9 have acquired exclusive video of the masked gunman responsible for Gat's release. A warning to our viewers, the following footage is graphic."

They cut to smartphone video. People were screaming as a man with a pistol walked up to a prone, injured police officer, taking his weapons. His white tank top was soaked through with blood, a dark red-and-black mess spreading down his torso. He said something unintelligible to the disarmed officer and turned away, rubbing his chest. The people on the news began talking over the footage, but Amelia was staring at the screen.

On the man's shoulder was a tattoo. It wasn't clear, but she could make out a very familiar set of wings. Once the suspicion was there, she noticed other things. The station silently played the video again while the anchors talked, and she saw the build, the clothing, the way he walked. It was Carlos.

She felt all of her grief turn to confusion and fear. What was going on? Where was Carlos now? She had to call him; she scrambled up off the couch and grabbed their landline, messing up the dial once before getting it right. She heard it ring, then heard the familiar sound of Aisha's 'Leave The Ho' upstairs. "Of course he left his phone," she said, hanging up.

Amelia walked back to the couch and collapsed, not knowing what to do with herself. Carlos could be **dead**. She wasn't sure if she could take that kind of loss right now. Even then, she had very little idea what he was doing, although she could guess why he was doing it. With a shuddering hand, she took a big gulp from her half-empty bottle.

She had to calm down. Carlos had some kind of healing ability now; the day after Milo died, he'd cut himself badly while making dinner. It had been an accident, and she was there to fix him anyway, but it had sealed up in the time it took her to walk to the kitchen, leaving no sign of injury. They just didn't know how effective it was, and besides that, why the hell would he think it was okay to risk his life like that!

Her fear was slowly fading, but as it lessened it was replaced by simmering anger at her impulsive, idiotic brother. He'd hurt people, badly. Because of him, she'd had to cut her volunteer work short, trading low-intensity charity for high-stress professional healing work. He'd rather go out and break a murderer from prison than stay home and help her arrange their brother's funeral?

She felt her clenched hand start to bleed. The houseplant, tendril crushed by her angry grip, had grown wicked spines and thorns. She let the pain course through her a moment, bringing clarity with the rush of endorphins, then retracted the thorns and got up to get a few paper towels for the blood.

Getting angry at Carlos would only make things worse in the long run.

There was the sound of a car pulling up. She rushed to the window. Carlos, now shirtless, got out of an unfamiliar car. A moment later, another vehicle pulled up to the curb and two other people, a man and a woman, followed him up the driveway. She went to the door as Carlos opened it.

He smiled weakly. "Hey, sis. We need to-"

She slapped him, hard, to make sure he felt it.

"_You idiot,"_ she yelled in Spanish, _"what were you thinking?" _Before he could say anything, she wrapped him in a hug, pulling him inside. _"I was so worried about you,"_ she said into his chest. She checked him for injuries, but aside from the handprint she'd put on his face she thankfully found none.

"_I deserve that,"_ he said, rubbing his cheek with his free arm. _"Can I go get a shirt, then we talk?"_

"_I'll get one. You just get them inside before the neighbors see,"_ she said, holding him a second more before heading upstairs.

She wasn't sure what Carlos was up to. She didn't care about the criminal activity; well, that wasn't entirely true, but they both knew that the authorities were uselessly weak, powerless to stop anything in this godforsaken city. If he wanted to join a gang as a cape and make a living that way, she'd worry, but she wouldn't hate him for it. But Johnny Gat? He was ABB, and last she checked they didn't recruit either his or her race, cape or no.

She grabbed a tee out of his mess of unfolded clothes- honestly, she felt like a mother sometimes, couldn't he keep things organized?- and went back downstairs.

Carlos had shown in the two guests. One, the man she had heard so many stories about from Milo, the almost mythical Gat. More than a few capes had (allegedly) died by his hand, including half of the original Teeth. Milo said he had once killed a trio of would-be hitmen while he was drunk, pumped full of sedatives, and armed with a cheap spoon.

The woman sat apart in the kitchen, obviously pissed off. She was as different from the slick-haired convict as could be. She had cappuccino skin, short, well-groomed hair, an impeccable fashion sense, and wore expensive jewelry. Amelia got the distinct and unexpected feeling that she knew the woman from somewhere, but couldn't place it. She assumed it must have been some passing acquaintance from work or school, and moved on.

Carlos was reading the paperwork with an empty, faraway expression. As she walked down, he set it aside numbly, staring ahead a moment before coming back to reality. She knew what he was thinking about. She'd had the same kind of thoughts after Mama died. He needed a distraction.

"Put a shirt on, skinny," she said, balling it up and chucking it across the room at him. She grabbed a chair to sit on from the kitchen. "Now let's talk," she demanded, sitting down confidently. "Why do I see my brother on the 4 o'clock news?"

Carlos looked sheepish, but before he cold say anything, Gat spoke up. She noticed he'd helped himself to the last of her beer. "Your brother here wants me to help him start a gang," he said.

"Revive the Saints," Carlos corrected.

"You're fucked in the head if you think there's any 'revival' about it. The Saints died out years ago. Dex is in the slammer, Châsse is Caged, I lost to Lung, and Milo went legit. It's a new gang, old name."

Both of them flinched at the casual mention of Milo and her father. Gat noticed. "What?"

"Fuck," Amelia said. "You didn't tell him?"

"...Not yet," Carlos mumbled. "Gat, Milo's dead. He died last week when he and I got caught up in a fight between Lung and Scrapper. We're his siblings."

Gat took that in for a moment. "...Fuck," he agreed. He looked at his empty beer. "You got anything stronger than this? I need a drink."

Amelia waved at the kitchen. "i think there's some whiskey in the freezer," she said. Carlos was staring at the ground again, lost in thought. She got up to follow Gat.

"Look," she said as he opened the fridge, "Carlos is going through a lot right now. I don't know what he said to you, but he's not thinking right at the moment. Go easy on him."

He turned to her, whiskey bottle in hand. "No, you look. Your brother might be a bit crazy right-"

She grabbed his wrist. "Don't you call my brother crazy," she warned. He tried to break her grip, and she effortlessly stopped the impulses after the muscles began to twitch, giving the impression she was stronger than she appeared. "I don't care how dangerous you think you are. You mess with him or use him when he's hurting? I'll break you so bad they'll never identify the body," she hissed.

"Ha! You've got some bite. I'll keep that in mind," he said, unfazed. "Now you wanna let me go so I can pour us a toast?"

She allowed him to pull out of her grip. He reached up and grabbed five glasses.

"Like I was saying, the kid's crazy, but he's good crazy. There ain't no justice in this city, not like the Saints used to bring. I'll stick with this suicide mission to the end." He poured. "Aisha, Milo's gone," he commented to the sulking woman at the table, offering her a glass.

She set down her phone and took it. "Shit. He was a good kid." She raised her glass and took a drink. Gat handed her two glasses and took two himself. She handed one to Carlos, and Gat set one on the coffee table opposite them all.

"To Milo," he said, raising his glass towards the unaccompanied one. "We all die sometime."

They drank, silently deciding not to complain about his choice of words. The whiskey, Milo's favorite liquor, burned all the way down. She coughed a bit.

"So, to business. I'm guessing neither of you have run with a gang before?"

They shook their heads. Amelia spoke. "We know a few people who've joined up with one gang or another, but decided not to join the Sons, and the others weren't options anyway." Carlos nodded assent.

"Well, first issue is muscle. The other gangs have capes, and while healing and jacking cars instantly is nice, it ain't enough."

Amelia opened her mouth, but paused. She had to think.

She had a good thing going as Cura. She was a famously versatile healer, bringing in clients across the country and making a lot of money in the process. Joining the Saints with her brother would not only end that, but make her a criminal and turn the PRT's attention her way. They knew her identity and would likely move on her if she went villain.

But on the other hand, there was no way she was letting her brother do this alone. So the question was, how could she remain Cura, yet also be a cape villain?

She glanced at the plant on the table, then at her still-healing palm. The seeds of an idea took root.


	4. Paving The Way

Chapter 3: Paving the Way

"So let me get this straight," Gat said. "You're 'Miracle' Cura."

She nodded.

"You're the adopted sister of my former friend."

"Yup."

"And you want to join us as muscle?"

"That's what she said, though I'm having trouble believing it," Carlos replied. He hadn't expected his sister to be so okay with the idea; but then again, they'd both changed a lot this week.

"Well fuck it, I'm game. This ride just keeps getting crazier. What kind of muscle are you talking?"

She shrugged. "I've got to keep myself separate from the new persona, but I've always liked working with plants. I think I could pass as a different cape if I specialize in them."

"Okay, vague, but whatever. Plant girl and guy who won't die, it could work."

"I've got more than that!" Carlos protested.

"Like what?" Gat challenged.

"I've got some kind of weapon storage," he said, demonstrating. "There's these weird glowing things all over the city that only I can see, but I have no idea what's up with those… and there's the car thing!" he added lamely.

"So you have slightly more guns than me, you can jack a car like nobody's business, and you hallucinate," Gat said sarcastically, "I'm so impressed."

Carlos sighed. When Gat put it like that, he did sound pretty useless. He was barely more than an average person if you ignored the healing ability.

Amy winced in sympathy. "Have you tried interacting with the glowing things you mentioned? They might be important. Parahumans perceive their powers in all kinds of strange ways, believe me."

"To be honest? I've barely thought about them, with how I've been all week," he admitted. More than a few days had been spent just lying in bed.

"Well, we know our first step," she said, standing up and clapping her hands together. "You and I are going to go run some errands, while the wanted murderer and whoever she is stay here and eat our food."

He recognized this mood. She was channeling Mama, which meant she probably had a bunch of stuff to say to him once they were alone. This was confirmed when she swept the paperwork off the table. He groaned and got to his feet. Today had been a long day, and it looked like it wasn't stopping anytime soon.

* * *

"Finally," he said as they rounded a corner into an alleyway, "I thought we'd never find one at ground level."

His sister looked around. "Where is it?" she asked, her gaze completely missing the object of his attention. It took up much of the width of the narrow alley, looking like a cluster of vertically-aligned glass shards that shimmered and pulsed with a soft blue-white light. They chimed, softly but insistently, even audible from this distance, even around the corner. He led her forward, nearing the fire escape under which it sat.

"I'm not feeling much beyond the light and sound," he said after a moment. "I'm going to see if I can touch it."

"That sounds like a good plan. I'm going to step back now, in case you explode or something," she half-joked, doing exactly that. Once she was a few yards away, he reached out to the nearest shard of the cluster.

An addictive, overwhelming rush of power coursed through him. Like lightning in his veins, like cocaine in his cells, like the cluster was turning to ice water that rushed into every pore of his skin. He flashed with light, momentarily as bright as the shard had been. He let out an exultant, euphoric laugh, feeling like he could run a mile.

Then… it was over. He was normal, and Amelia was clapping a hand over his mouth to shut him up, then made a noise of disgust. "Ugh, it feels like you just had a massive orgasm, without the orgasm. Gross." she took her hand away. "I was going to ask why you started laughing like a maniac, but please do not fill me in."

"Wha- It's not like that!" he sputtered.,

"As someone who can instantly sense biochemistry, it is like that. It is exactly like that, and now I have the sensation of that burned in my brain."

"How would you even kno-" he stopped, not wanting the answer to that question. "Nevermind. Let's just forget this ever happened."

"Agreed," she said sullenly.

He tried running to the end of the alley and back. "I don't feel much different," he remarked as he returned.

"I think you might be running faster, or at least with better form," she commented. He shot her a look. "What? I'm not the one who tried out for the track team!"

"So, what, I get faster? I guess that's useful. Let's find another couple, see what happens?"

"Sure."

Ten minutes later, he spotted one on a rooftop. "You think we could get up a fire escape without drawing attention?"

She shrugged. "I'll keep watch while you try."

It took him five minutes to get enough height off the wall to catch the ladder, and he knew Amelia was snickering at his falls. At least he was healing away the bruises faster than they could form. He climbed the rusty fire escape, wincing when it squeaked loudly halfway up, but reached the roof without incident.

Another wave of euphoric energy later, he was back down the escape and running again.

"I mean, it's hard to tell if you're faster or not," she said. "Maybe it's a really minor boost, or something?"

"Only one way to find out," he replied.

Another shard was found and collected.

"No," she yawned, "You're definitely the same speed."

"So what, they just make me feel good? That can't be it, can it?"

"It could," she confirmed. "Lots of powers are one-note. You already have the other stuff, maybe this was just some weird extra thing you have?"

He frowned. "I'd like to get one or two more. Just to be sure."

She shrugged. "Sure. You owe me ice cream for earlier, though."

"Deal." He took the lead, spying another cluster on the roof of a distant gas station.

As it turned out, four was his lucky number. This became apparent mere moments after grabbing the last cluster. He turned to run back to the ladder before anyone noticed him up on the roof – and ran so fast he completely overshot the edge, falling with a yell.

Carlos hit the ground flailing, and bounded back into the air. He flew twenty feet in a graceful arc, landing in a flawless gymnast pose. He was distantly surprised to find his legs not only intact, but unhurt.

"Um… I think that did it," he said breathlessly.

"So, you glow now," Amelia remarked. "Oh wait, it's fading. Good. God this is surreal."

"You're telling me," he agreed, looking around to make sure nobody was watching. The area was deserted. He tried running again.

His skin glowed faint blue, and he took off like a rocket. Within moments, he was a hundred feet away from his sister; seconds later, he was by her side. "Super speed," he said. Then he crouched ant flew upward. "Super mobility," he amended as he landed.

"Yeah, seems like it." Amelia had an odd expression. "Anything else?"

He didn't feel any different, but that hardly meant anything. He'd just run at highway speeds without effort and jumped two or three stories like it was nothing, so why would he feel strange in other ways? He threw some experimental punches. When his knuckles lit up and his skin glowed again, he made an educated guess. He picked up a cinderblock nearby; it felt like a styrofoam block to him. "Super strength, too," he said as he tossed and caught the block a few times. Thankfully, lifting the cinderblock didn't trigger the glow; that would have been a pain. He set the block down.

"Seriously, this is so strange. My brother has superpowers."

"You've had powers for years, and I never looked at you weird," Carlos protested.

She shook her head. "My powers aren't very impressive."

"Your powers are amazing," he said earnestly. "You've changed more lives than I can count. You might be the only person on the planet who can give someone a flawless transition in ten minutes flat with little to no side effects, and you're definitely the only person in the world who can claim to have accidentally eliminated the common cold."

"We don't talk about The Incident!" she said sharply.

"Right, right," he lamented. "My point is, I can't do anything like that. Probably," he added as an afterthought. Who knew really. These newfound powers felt so natural it was like breathing, and he hadn't felt any kind of drain using them.

Would he have to hold back for the rest of his life for fear of a random glow giving him away? He couldn't say, but the thought worried him.

Carlos had been quiet too long. He mentally reoriented. "Look, we got some results, but it's getting late. I owe you some ice cream, and I know you wanted to do the paperwork today. Let's go to the Boardwalk?"

She smiled. "Yeah," she agreed.

* * *

"I'm thinking we should go for our GEDs," Amelia said as they watched the sunset from a bench on the Boardwalk.

Carlos looked to her, surprised. "You do? I thought you wanted to stick it out?"

"Winslow has never been kind to us, and with Milo gone..." she trailed off, clenched and unclenched her left hand, looking down at it.

He followed her gaze; the motion had brought out thin white scars along her forearm, long healed but forever present. He saw a series of fresh scabs and cuts on her palm. "Amy, please tell me-"

"I'm not," she said, already knowing what he would ask, "It was an accident. I saw you on the news and lost control for a moment."

He let it go. They sat in silence, watching the waves lap on the rocky beach, the sun glinting off the white spires and arches of the Protectorate headquarters. Finally, he spoke. "I hate to leave school when we only have a few months left, but you might be right. Things are going to be crazy from now on."

She nodded. "You're an ass for dragging me into this, you know. I love you, but you're an ass. You should have talked to me beforehand."

"I know," he said. Then, quietly, "I just miss him so much."

"I do too," she agreed, squeezing his hand as he began to cry softly. "I do too."

He knew it was stupid to blame himself for Milo's death. There was little he could have done to change things in the moment. But knowing something didn't stop doubts from creeping in, or keep him from lying awake at night thinking about what he might have done differently. There was so much left unsaid, so many things he wished they could have done together.

Carlos missed the sun's last moments on the horizon, finally drying his tears as twilight descended.

He wasn't the same. Even without these powers, he would never have been the same, never quite moved on. He had been so powerless to stop the violence that night, and it had just been the capstone on a life of hoping something would change. His brother died an ignoble death at the hands of people who didn't even notice him, and nobody in power was going to do anything to prevent it from happening again.

Well, now he had power. If the authorities wouldn't step up to protect people like Milo, he would.

"Let's go," he said softly, picking up the completed paperwork they had set aside. "We've got a big day tomorrow."


End file.
